A peal of boy's laughter floated in at the open window.

"Who's that?" said I.

"Love," said Miss Childe. "The locksmiths are here, and he's laughing at
them. I think it's rather unkind myself. Besides----"

A burst of machine-gun fire interrupted her.

As the echoes died down--

"You smell of potpourri," said I.

"Probably. I made three bags full this morning. Bead bags. Do you mind
putting some coal on the fire? If there aren't any tongs, use the
telephone."

There was no fireplace and no coal-scuttle, so I took off my right boot
and put it in the bottom drawer of the tallboy instead.

"Number, please," said Miss Childe, who had entered the closet and was
standing a-tiptoe before a mirror to adjust a patch beneath her left
eye.

"Lot 207," said I.

"Line's engaged," said Miss Childe. "Didn't you see it in _The Times_?"

By way of answer, I threw a large plate at her. She seemed more pleased